All He'll Ever Be

Chapter 8

Time slips by again. And then more time. There is no change in my predicament, save my sanity.

Although my stomach grumbles and the delicious scents of butter and cheese are all I can smell, I leave the tray where it sits.

I don't eat, and I don't undress to bathe myself. Not with him watching. The anger boils and rises to such an extreme that I almost slam the bucket across the room, straight at the camera.

I'm not his pet or his test subject. He can take that foam tray and go fuck himself with it. At least that's what I think when I first move closer to see it; the thought even gives me joy. Hours pass and then more. How much time, I don't know. There's nothing in this room and loneliness and boredom are only two of the emotions I'm not sure I'll be able to handle if this is how my new life will proceed.

My mind starts playing tricks on me and I find myself etching small things into the cinder blocks with a button on my shirt. The shirt's already ripped so it doesn't matter. The top two buttons have been pulled off, the first one long lost and the second now a writing tool. A small and poor one, but there's nothing else to do but pace and let my mind wander.

And that leads me to awful places.

I'm busy carving a pattern, a useless, meaningless pattern of birds and vines into a block that's not even deep enough to be seen clearly when the door opens behind me.

My heart lurches and I swing my body around so violently that the back of my head collides with the wall, the button slips from my hand and the sound of it pinging to a stop on the ground fills the room.

The flood of light is lost quickly as Cross steps inside my cell and closes the door behind him. His figure is like a shadow of darkness as he walks toward me.

"What do you want?" I ask instinctually, barely able to breathe, let alone swallow the pathetic words before I can speak them. I'm glad I didn't eat because if I had I would have lost it all in this moment. Panic rages inside of me.

He's quiet as he takes one step forward and then another. He only takes his eyes from me once, and that's to look at the chair in the corner of the room.

"My father will come for me," I tell him as he walks toward the chair and positions it so he can sit and face me. "He's going to kill you," I add, and my words are strangled, but audible.

All I'm rewarded with is a soft smile on his lips. The stubble on his jaw is more noticeable and his eyes seem darker, but maybe it's just the light. Everything else about him is more foreboding than I remember. His height and broad shoulders, the lean build of his body with the rippled accents of his muscles. God made him to do deadly, sinful things. One look and that's obvious.

As if reading my mind, he grins at me, forcing me to take a step back, which only widens the grin to a charming and perfect smile. I feel like I'm caught in a cage. A little mouse to a lion. And he's only toying with me.

"You're sick," I spit at him, clenching my hands into fists.

"I'm well aware of that little fact, Aria. Tell me, what else do you know about me?" His voice is smooth velvet, and it echoes in a deep way from wall to wall in the room. The kind of echo you feel deep in your gut, one that haunts you so much later in the night.

"I know my father will gut you," I answer him with sickening contempt.

"He isn't going to do anything. He doesn't even know I'm the one who has you." His head tilts slightly as he examines my every reaction.

"Yes, he does," I breathe as if it will be true if only I say it is. His look turns to pity, but only for a moment. It passes so quickly I wonder if I even saw it, or maybe it was only the dim light in the room playing tricks on me.